Leon and the Spitting Image (6 page)

Curiosity gnawed at Leon. He wanted to know what the unlabeled drawer contained, but resisted the impulse to sneak a peek. The unpleasant consequences of his last unauthorized investigation (of his mother’s desk) were still fresh in his mind.

He distracted himself by glancing about the room. All his classmates were focused on Miss Hagmeyer, who was busily writing numbers on the blackboard and droning on about “bringing down the six.”

Leon had no interest whatsoever in bringing down the six, so while Miss Hagmeyer generated remainders and dividends, he reached over and wrapped his
fingers around the knob of the unidentified drawer. He gave the knob a gentle tug and peered inside.

At first Leon couldn’t figure out what he was looking at. Once he had, he reared back slightly. The contents of the drawer confused him. And embarrassed him. And grossed him out. The dull gray tangle wasn’t as disgusting or fascinating as, say, teacher’s spit, but it came pretty close.

“Mr. Zeisel,” Miss Hagmeyer said.

Still puzzling over his discovery, Leon failed to hear his name.

“Mr. Zeisel!”
Miss Hagmeyer repeated more forcefully.

“Huh?”

“Get your nose out of my PANTY HOSE!”

It took a moment for the command to register. When it did, Leon felt the blood rushing to his head.

The whole class went berserk, laughing and hooting as he sank into his chair.

“Silence!”
Miss Hagmeyer shouted. She marched over to the cabinet. “Next time I’ll know better than to leave this open.” She padlocked the doors and turned to Leon. “Students who can’t thread needles shouldn’t poke through their teacher’s things, should they, Mr. Zeisel?”

“No, Miss Hagmeyer,” Leon said abjectly.

“They should listen to their teachers, should they not?” she further chided.

“S-s-sorry,” said Leon. He felt dangerously close to tears.

“Apology accepted—provisionally. However, in the future, I expect you to stay out of my drawers unless authorized. As it is, you have your hands full, what with the stitching practice and tonight’s assignment.”

“What assignment?” Leon asked.

Miss Hagmeyer released an irritated snort. “As I explained while you were rifling through my hose, I expect everyone to bring in a piece of cloth.”

“What kind of cloth?”

Miss Hagmeyer shook her head in despair. “I answered
that
question, too, Mr. Zeisel. It doesn’t make the slightest difference what kind. Bring in a dish towel. Bring in some upholstery fabric. Bring in a piece of old bedsheet, for all I care. Just so long as it’s roughly the size of your desktop. And I’ll answer your next question before you ask it,” she added. “You will need the cloth for your first sewing project of the year.”

P
anty
hose!” P.W. exclaimed as soon as class let out.

Leon nodded gravely and turned to Lily-Matisse. “Did your mom tell you why the Hag keeps her underwear in school?”

“Nope,” said Lily-Matisse. “But she did see her changing glass eyes in the teachers’ lounge.”

“She stores the spares in the cabinet,” said Leon. “There must be twenty different kinds.”

“I’m pretty sure today’s were snake eyes,” said P.W.

“How do you know?” said Lily-Matisse skeptically.

“The slitty pupils,” said P.W. matter-of-factly.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Leon said. “I’d take a snakebite over sewing class any day.”

“Ditto,” said P.W.

“Double ditto,” said Lily-Matisse.

The sound of a car horn interrupted them. Leon quickly spotted Napoleon de l’Ange, the cheery taxi driver from the day before.

“Need a lift, Monsieur Leon? No charge for friends.”

Leon hesitated. He liked Napoleon. He was funny and nice. But there was a problem. Napoleon came
from Haiti, and Haiti was already pinned on his map. Leon worried his taxi collection would never grow if he kept using the same driver.

“Go for it,” P.W. urged. “That way you can spend your cab fare on candy.”

“And potato chips,” Lily-Matisse added.

Leon considered his options. “Sure,” he said, accepting Napoleon’s offer.

A few minutes into the ride, he tapped the hack license and said, “I’ve been wondering, Napoleon. Why are you named after a pastry? Were your parents bakers?”

Napoleon let out a deep-bellied laugh. “No, no, Monsieur Leon. I was named for a famous French general and so was the pastry. But the famous Napoleon was short, and I am tall. He was white, and I am black. He was powerful, and I am … well, I drive a taxi. And on top of all that … I
hate
napoleons.”

“Me too,” Leon admitted. “Too custardy.” He was
wondering about how he’d feel eating a leon (if such a pastry existed) when Napoleon said, “We do that in Haiti.”

“Do what?”

“Name our children after important people. I have three brothers: Moses, Charlemagne, and Zeus—plus a sister, Cleopatra. You Americans are not interesting with your names.”

“I guess not,” Leon admitted.

“But tell me,” said Napoleon, “did my prediction come true? Did you have a nine-and-three-quarters day?”

Leon sighed. “Hardly. More like a
negative
nine and three quarters.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s my teacher,” Leon complained. “All she cares about is sewing.”

“But art class is a good thing, Monsieur Leon. Sewing can be very useful.”

“I’m not talking about my
art
teacher. I’m talking about my
teacher
teacher.”

“And she makes you sew?”

“Yup,” said Leon glumly.

Napoleon shook his head in disbelief.

“Plus she has these disgusting-looking ears—they’re like radar dishes—that she keeps hidden under her possibly fake hair.”

“Mon Dieu!”
Napoleon exclaimed. “You had better tell your mother about all this.”

The cab pulled up to the hotel a few moments later. Napoleon parked and, as he had the day before, jumped out to open the passenger door. “Au revoir, Monsieur Leon,” he said with a tip of his imaginary hat. “And let us hope tomorrow will at least be a seven.”

“I’ll settle for a five and a half,” said Leon before he pushed through the revolving door. He negotiated his way past a drably dressed woman walking a peacock and headed over to the reception desk, where his mother clearly had problems of her own.

One of the guests, a rail-thin mime covered in white face paint, was shouting at her. “Look, lady! We didn’t book this dump expecting a conference room with a broken microphone.”

“I apologize, sir,” said Emma Zeisel.

“Apologies won’t get us our friggin’ mike, will they?” the mime snarled.

“Again, I am sorry.”

“Well,
sorry
doesn’t cut it!” he yelled.

“Please lower your voice,” Emma Zeisel said. “You are a mime, after all.”

The observation rendered the man speechless. He stormed off in a (silent) huff.

Emma Zeisel turned to her son. “As group
bookings go, Leon, the West Coast Mimes are, without a doubt,
the
worst.”

“What about those rattlesnake ranchers we had last year? Remember them?”

“At least they left me some antidote. Came in handy, too. Anyway, let’s forget about difficult guests, sweetie. Tell me about your day.”

Leon needed little encouragement. He provided a blow-by-blow account of the goings-on in his classroom, up to and including the business of the panty hose.

“Panty hose!”
said Emma Zeisel. “Why on earth would a teacher store her old stockings in school?”

“I have
no
clue, Mom. All I can tell you is I need help with my threading and stitching. Plus I need a piece of cloth for tomorrow.”

Emma Zeisel sighed. “You know my hours, sweetie. These double shifts are a killer. But I bet Maria can get you squared away. She’s a demon with a needle.”

After Leon updated the signboard (VVelcome Peacock Breeders of VValla VValla, VVashington!!!!) he sought out Maria. He found her in Housekeeping, funneling bright green shampoo from a large jug into dozens of tiny bottles.

“Hola, Leonito!” she said. “How you doing?”

“Not good, Maria.”

For a third time since leaving school, Leon described his new teacher’s behavior and the panty hose she kept in class.

“Is she
crazy
or something?”

“Very
crazy, Maria. She expects us to thread a needle and to learn her seven dumb stitches. Take a look.” Leon pulled the handout from his backpack.

“You need Maria to help?” Maria asked.

“Could you?”

“No problem,” she said reassuringly.

After completing the shampoo transfer, Maria cleared a table and brought out her sewing basket. She reached for a spool of cotton and bit off a length of thread.

“Miss Hagmeyer doesn’t want us using our teeth,” said Leon.

Maria shook her head. “What harm can a little spit do?”

“Beats me,” said Leon.

“Well, you show me what she taught you, this Miss Panty Hose,” Maria said suspiciously.

Leon reached for the scissors and cut a length of thread. He tried poking the thread through the eye of the needle again and again but failed every time.

“See?” he moaned. “I’ll
never
do it.”

“Yes you will, Leonito,” Maria countered. She expertly repositioned Leon’s fingers on the scissors, like a baseball coach adjusting a batter’s grip. “Now cut the thread,” she said.

Leon held the scissors at a steep angle and sliced another length of thread off the spool. When it came
time to thread the needle, he succeeded after just two pokes.

“Awesome!” he exclaimed.

“Sharp angle, sharp cut,” Maria said with a smile.

“Gracias,”
said Leon. For the first time since school started, he felt a small measure of satisfaction.

Threading became a breeze. Mastering the seven stitches of virtue, however, proved more challenging. Fortunately for Leon, Maria remained close at hand.

“No, Leonito,” she corrected gently. “Watch me. For the hemming stitch you
slant
the needle.”

Leon modified his grip and tried again. Eventually he hemmed three full inches of his practice cloth. “You’re a much better teacher than Miss Mushroom Ears,” he said.

“I’ve got a good student,” Maria replied.

Good but not perfect. Leon only succeeded in replicating six of the seven stitches of virtue. One stitch eluded him—the overcast. According to his handout, the overcast was the stitch used when finishing off a seam. No matter how much Leon practiced, he couldn’t get the needle to obey his less-than-nimble fingers.

He put his sewing away and was about to leave Housekeeping when he remembered the other assignment. “Oh, I almost forgot, Maria. I’ve got to bring a towel to school tomorrow.”

“A towel? Why? Your teacher planning to give you a bath?”

Leon laughed. “I sure hope not.”

Maria handed him a tattered Trimore hand towel just as Emma Zeisel stuck her head in.

“Sweetie, I’m on break. Frau Haffenreffer has some sandwiches waiting for us.”

And so with his homework more or less done, Leon ended the day sitting across from his mom in the Trimore Towers coffee shop. He didn’t want to gripe about school, but he couldn’t stop himself. Over PB&J (extra J) and a bag of Zapp’s Kettle-Cooked Mesquite Bar-B-Que Potato Chips (his current favorite), Leon complained about his needle-wielding teacher.

“Nine months, Mom. I’ll have to deal with the Hag for nine months! That’s two hundred and seventy days!”

“You’ll be fine,” said Emma Zeisel, sounding more wishful than confident. “And besides, there’s no need to include weekends.”

“Whatever,” said Leon morosely.

Depressing thoughts about sewing gnawed at Leon long after he’d finished dinner. They were still with him when he climbed into bed. What had he done to deserve the Hag? Why’d she have to scream at him? Would his entire year be filled with pink scraps of material, terry cloth hand towels, and liver-colored panty hose? Would he be able to handle the work?

Click-click-click-buzzzz
…

From the far side of the bedroom wall, the Ice
Queen started casting her evil spell. All hope of sleep disappeared.